Silence in the Desert Read online

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘It’s been a tradition of our family that one of the sons of each generation should serve in the Legion and since I’m the only son this time around, that’s where I’m going. I suppose that with an English mother I could head in a different direction, but I don’t feel myself pulled into anything else.’

  ‘It won’t make a vast difference,’ said Rooky. ‘We’re all going to have to fight, and you can choose a career later.’

  Henri was surprised. ‘How do you mean, we must all fight?’ he said. ‘Surely as a Benedictine monk and priest, you’re not going to be called up?’

  Rooky looked at him intently for a moment. ‘Correct, but I’m on the Reserve list as an army chaplain. ‘I was a Platoon Commander in the Irish Guards in the 1914 War, and then came here to study for the priesthood. Tell me, what’s special about the French Foreign Legion?’

  ‘Well,’ said Henri. ‘It was founded early in the last century to fight overseas for France and its allies, and was composed of mainly foreigners who were not welcome in their home country, revolutionaries and the like, and commanded by French officers. The Legion’s depot is at Sidi Bel Abbès in Algeria, and that’s still how it recruits.’

  ‘There seems to be a degree of glamour attached to it,’ said Rooky, ‘What with Beau Geste and all that stuff.’

  ‘I have to get through Saint-Cyr military college first, and pass out in the top group to be eligible for the Legion,’ said Henri. ‘I start there in September.’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah,’ said Rooky. ‘I asked your two pals, Beckendorf and Lomberg to join us.’ He raised his voice. ‘Come in, gentlemen.’ A short, tough-looking boy walked in, followed by a much taller broad-shouldered one. ‘Help yourselves to sherry, and get comfortable. Being your last day here, I thought we might all have a chat about the future.’

  ‘Jolly kind of you, sir’ said Leo Beckendorf, his clipped way of speaking accentuated a slight German accent. ‘It certainly is, sir,’ added Bill Lomberg, who spoke in a very English way although he was South African.

  ‘All three of you have had your ups and downs here,’ said Rooky. ‘But on the whole, I think you can be good advertisements for the school.’ There was a silence while this mild praise sank in.

  Rooky went on, glancing at Leo. ‘My fear is that we’re all going to be fighting one another shortly.’

  The short tough one, Leo Beckendorf, looked down at the floor, then raised his head. The blond hair had not yet recovered from its last school haircut. ‘I want to be a pilot,’ he said. ‘In the new Luftwaffe, but I don’t see why there should be a war involving Britain, Germany and France,’ he exclaimed, looking at his best school mates.

  ‘We shall see,’ said the monk. He switched his gaze to the tall broad-shouldered boy. ‘And you, Bill Lomberg, I hear you’ve won an RAF scholarship to Cambridge, so you’ll be flying as well. Just remember to keep up your rugby. You might play for the Springboks one day.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ responded Bill. ‘I should get my pilot’s licence while at university. If there’s going to be a war, then when will it be, I wonder?’

  ‘Sooner rather than later,’ said Rooky. ‘And I’ve a special concern of my own.’ The three boys looked at him in some surprise.

  ‘You know well that an essential part of the education at St Gregory’s is to give you a good grounding in the Catholic faith. We discuss the moral law. I’d like you to think about that as you go out into life. In peacetime, so-called natural law is equivalent to the moral law. But in times of strife, the two can diverge. After all, the rules of life in a civilized country in peacetime follow closely moral principles. But there are times, not just in a war, when laws are suspended or altered so those in power can impose their ideology. Do you follow me?’

  The others nodded, although there was some hesitation on their faces. Leo Beckendorf was the first to speak. ‘We’ve learnt that all men are equal in the eyes of God, that they are his creatures and receive his Grace. I’ve thought now and again about the policies of the Nazi party in my country towards Jews. Is that in your view a suspension of the moral law?’

  ‘My dear Leo,’ said the monk. ‘I can call you by your first name since from tomorrow I’ll no longer be in charge of you. I don’t want to criticize one race or country. But the Jews have been treated as inferior and devious by most countries over the ages, and the way they are now prevented from practising their professions and a normal life in Germany, just as some native peoples are so prevented in colonial countries, is contrary to the moral law.’

  There was a pause, and Henri wondered what was coming next.

  Rooky went on. ‘You may wonder why this should concern the three of you. Well, in war, you may suddenly have to decide whether something you’re being forced into is morally acceptable or not. I hope your time spent here will help you to decide.’

  ‘I expect it will,’ said Henri, although he was unsure how he would react if faced with such a dilemma.

  ‘For me, there’s an issue concerning the Church in this regard,’ said Rooky, as he got up and went over to his desk, pulling a thin file out of a drawer. From it he extracted a few sheets of typed paper. ‘The new Pope, when he was still a Monsignor in the Vatican, edited a notice to be smuggled secretly into Germany last year and read out in all Catholic churches in that country. I received this copy from a friend in Rome. It’s written in German, and headed “Mit brennender Sorge”.’

  ‘Which means “with burning concern” I think,’ remarked Bill, whose knowledge of the Afrikaans language made German easier.

  ‘Spot on,’ said Leo, who had been told of this papal encyclical by his parents, after they heard it read out in their local church just outside Berlin. ‘Apparently, it made Hitler and his top people furious.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the monk. ‘It addresses the interference of the Nazi government into the religious education in Catholic schools, and also made reference to the oppression of parts of society, without actually naming the Jews. My concern is whether when war breaks out, the Church will be seen to be standing up for the principles it set down for its followers in Germany.’

  Henri interjected. ‘I see how modern warfare will challenge moral principles, after all extreme measures may be taken against humanity, such as by bombing civilians and racial persecution.’

  ‘Exactly right, Henri,’ said the monk. ‘The Church must be seen to stand firm against crimes against the moral law. Just as you have to be alert to actions which are morally unacceptable, so does the Church have to set an example. Now, have another glass of sherry all of you, and let’s talk about something less serious, such as rugby, or girls.’

  Henri lay in bed that final night at school, mulling over Rooky’s talk with the three of them. His thoughts moved on to how demanding his training at Saint-Cyr would be, whether he would overcome the nerves he suffered when faced with something tough or unpleasant. Then his mind went back to his earliest memories, the garden and house in Bordeaux, and his twin sister Françoise, how their mother spoke to them in English much of the time, and how they read English children’s books as well as French. The way they looked forward to the trips to their grandparents in England. Lucky that France and England are allies, he thought. What would happen to Leo, should there be a war with Germany?

  He thought about his parents, the wrench he felt each time he went away to school in England. All right for Françoise who stayed in Bordeaux, at the lycée for girls. As twins, the two were close and in their teens would sail for hours together in the family boat, taking their lunch and landing anywhere they fancied along the banks of the Garonne estuary. Now, suddenly, their school days behind them, Henri wondered how he and Françoise would cope with the dangers a war would impose on them.

  3

  Norway, April 1940

  Henri felt nervous and scared, suddenly awake after a fitful sleep, conscious of the background drumming from the engine room and the invasive smell of hot oil. Only rec
ently promoted from Aspirant to Sous-Lieutenant, what was he doing now in the bunk of a troopship heading for the north coast of Norway? Why was it ice and snow he’d have to face, after being trained with his fellow legionnaires for the Algerian desert and the mountains of Morocco? How would he react the first time under live fire from a determined enemy?

  His mind flashed back to Saint-Cyr military college, remembering how lucky he was to pass out high enough to qualify for a commission in the French Foreign Legion, based at the Legion’s HQ at Sidi Bel Abbès in Algeria. The gruelling desert and mountain training he somehow survived. Then suddenly it happened. France was at war. His posting came through to join a new Legion half-brigade, 13ème Demi-brigade de Légion étrangère or 13 DBLE. Large numbers of Spanish Republicans were among the legionnaires assigned to 13 DBLE. Refugees who crossed the border into France at the end of the Spanish Civil War, already trained and experienced fighters who detested the Nazis for the support they gave Franco.

  The endless train journeys up France and Britain until the unit arrived in Glasgow. Orders to embark on Monarch of Britain which was serving as a troopship. With them were Chasseurs Alpins, French alpine troops, and Polish refugee soldiers. Alongside this force, the British 24th Guards Brigade.

  Lying there in his bunk, as the Monarch of Britain steamed east after clearing Scotland, Henri wondered how long it would be before the siren went off, and they would be on their feet, grabbing at the kit so meticulously prepared a few hours earlier. Each man would be having his own thoughts. Few of the young officers, French and British, could claim any battlefield experience. Except, of course, Captain Gordon-Watson, he’d got to know before they sailed, in his role as de facto French liaison officer with 24th Guards Brigade. That was thanks to Henri’s English being far superior to anyone else’s in the French contingent. Michael Gordon-Watson, intelligence officer of the 1st Battalion, Irish Guards, was a veteran of the Abyssinian campaign a few months earlier and wore the ribbon of the MC on his battledress tunic.

  ‘It’s Narvik that everyone’s excited about,’ Gordon-Watson told him back in Glasgow. ‘That’s where we’re going, to the far north of the country.’

  ‘Why right up there?’ said Henri.

  ‘Iron ore,’ said the Guards Officer. ‘Essential to German industry, it’s transported by rail from Sweden across the top of Norway. Narvik’s an ice-free port with year-round access for German freighters.’

  He and Henri were having a drink in the officers’ mess at Greenock, the day before embarkation. Suddenly, a familiar figure approached them, in battledress of an army chaplain rather than the black monastic habit of a Benedictine monk.

  ‘So, de Rochefort,’ said Father Rooker, or Rooky as everyone knew him, ‘you made it to Foreign Legion officer, my congratulations.’

  Henri jumped to his feet in surprise. ‘Father Rooker. That’s amazing. I remember you saying on my last day at school, you would be a padre in the Irish Guards if there was a war.’

  Rooky beamed at both of them, drawing his tall thin figure up to full height. ‘Extraordinary to meet again in Glasgow, of all places. After Algeria, you must be missing the silence in the desert, Henri. How’s your family, I think you’ve a twin sister?’

  ‘Yes, Françoise finished school last year. She’s mad about a naval cadet on a French battleship.’

  The padre rubbed his chin, thinking back to that last day of term a couple of years ago. ‘I wonder what’s happened to those two great chums of yours, Leo Beckendorf and Bill Lomberg. I seem to remember there was some friendly rivalry between them, one set on going into the Luftwaffe and the other the RAF.’

  ‘I believe they kept in touch until war broke out,’ said Henri.

  Michael Gordon-Watson was looking on in some surprise, and broke into the conversation. ‘So, Henri, you must have been educated by Rooky and his fellow monks at that other establishment to where I was.’ The three of them had a good laugh, and went in to dine together.

  As the venerable liner ploughed on, Henri repeated to himself the essentials of the on-board briefing the day before. Given by General Béthouart who commanded the French contingent, and RN Liaison Officer Lieutenant Dan Duff. Duff’s job included command of the landing craft and Norwegian fishing boats which would land the legionnaires. Everyone paid serious attention until Béthouart turned to Duff and told him that priority must be given to the cargo of barrels. They each contained 50 litres of wine.

  A piercing siren brought Henri to his senses, and in no time he was on deck in full battle kit. The icy wind from the Arctic whipped the waves into a creamy froth and tore at his face. He made out on the horizon the outline of Nerjangs Fjord, white hills on either side, with mountains beyond. Almost a snow-covered version of how he remembered Algeria.

  The French were to land at Bjerkvik, about twelve kilometres north of Narvik. As they drew closer, he could make out warehouses on the shoreline, some on fire, and brightly painted wooden houses beyond. Naval gunnery was pounding targets onshore, preparatory to their landing. Dan Duff, who had still been awaiting his gunnery exams when assigned to the mission, handled the bombardment of the French landing zone from the destroyer HMS Fame, just ahead of them. He knew that Duff was again astonished by the French General when Béthouart said the legionnaires would advance through the gunnery target area during the bombardment.

  Two blasts from a whistle, the moment for Henri’s platoon to transfer to one of the craft provided by the Royal Navy for the amphibious assault on Bjerkvik. He saw 13 DBLE’s commander, Lt. Col. Magrin-Vernerey, at the top of the rope ladders. The Polish and British, from the accompanying troopships, were already ashore and awaiting the order to advance on Bjerkvik. The order never came. Instead, the French assault fleet, led by the battleship HMS Resolution sailed past them, up the fjord with the Legion’s 13 DBLE on-board.

  So for Henri this was real action. Landing onto a jetty alongside, they ran forward towards the port buildings as machine gun fire opened up on them. Cover was taken wherever they could find it. Then a crashing blast of dust and debris as a mortar bomb blew apart the truck being unloaded close by. Henri turned his head sideways to check for casualties in his platoon. There was Juan Morel, one of Henri’s corporals looking across at him and grinning, no doubt in an attempt to reassure the new young officer, saying something in unintelligible Catalan.

  Sick with nervousness up to this point, Henri now felt somehow different. Steadier, more focused. Must be his training, he thought. He pointed to a warehouse building just off the port’s sea front. It seemed to be the closest source of enemy fire. Calling for covering fire, he crawled forward in the snow to get a better view of where the machine gun and mortar fire was coming from. Taking another Spanish legionnaire with him, they worked their way round and towards the rear of the warehouse.

  Machine gun fire opened up again, coming from the front of the first floor. Then the thump of a mortar bomb being fired. Gradually they approached the building, keeping out of sight as best they could. Now at the foot of the rear wall. A hoist and steps led to the upper floors. There was a stench of fish, indicating the building was used for canning herring or perhaps cod. They climbed silently to first floor level, and crept round the structure of the hoist so they could see the machine gun and mortar teams on the other side. Each detached grenades from their webbing, withdrew the pins and rolled them side by side towards the front of the building, taking cover behind the casing of the hoist. The grenades exploded simultaneously.

  Henri and the Legionnaire rushed across, firing short bursts from their Thompson guns. Two Gebirgsjäger, Austrian mountain troops, leant beside their machine gun against the front wall. One appeared dead. The other was shouting, one hand on a wound spouting blood from his groin and the other held high in a gesture of surrender. The other two manning the mortar appeared shocked, slowly raising their hands, just boys they looked. Henri’s training made him leave them under cover of the Legionnaire while he worked his way from wall to wall around
the floor until he was sure there were no others.

  Corporal Morel ceased covering fire when it was clear the assault was under way. Henri now signalled to him to advance with his section, and join up at the foot of the warehouse. Henri couldn’t help thinking the whole operation was probably elementary for Morel after the street fighting against Franco’s troops in Barcelona. Spasmodic firing continued some distance away but all seemed calm where they were.

  Henri took the microphone from his wireless operator and made his contact report to Company HQ, giving the result, location, and asking for further orders. The news was that the Austrians were having difficulty in the snow conditions. Although they belonged to an alpine unit, for some inexplicable reason they were without skis. It appeared they were in the process of withdrawing.

  Hearing the town of Bjerkvik was now in the hands of 13 DBLE, with few casualties, Henri realized he was shaking. Must be the excitement of the assault, and the success, he thought. Yet, he kept remembering the faces of the Austrians, so young, one dead and another dying. This was his work. Was he proud of it? He’d not killed anyone before. It was his duty. Yet, there was conflict in his reasoning, between his duty to cause death and the right of others to live. Can’t dwell on that sort of thing, must concentrate on what next, was his reaction. But that conflict remained in him.

  It was two weeks later when the Legion and Chasseurs units received orders to cross Rombaksfjorde, and to land on the southern edge of Narvik itself. As Henri’s platoon hit the beach, he knew they were in trouble, finding themselves almost on top of enemy positions. Pinned down by artillery and machine gun fire for five hours, a miracle was called for. It arrived in the form of 13 DBLE’s Commanding Officer. Magrin-Vernerey came ashore and, with submachine gun, led a charge up the slopes above the beach. Although heavily outnumbered, the legionnaires and Norwegian troops who had joined them, drove the enemy out of Narvik.